


The eyes glaze once

by 1001cranes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Guro, Immortality, M/M, Non Canonical Immortal, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter gets to have his boy and eat him too. [AU, Immortal!Stiles]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I vaguely remember this as Saucery's fault. She is an excessively convenient excuse.
> 
> Making Sheriff Stilinski's first name 'John' again. BECAUSE I CAN. This might be the reason I do most things. 
> 
> Slight deviation from werewolf canon in that werewolves are able to transform into full wolves, not just werewolves and/or hulking Alpha-monsters. This is quite possibly my biggest disappointment with Teen Wolf, I cannot lie. 
> 
> TItle taken from Emily Dickinson's _Real_.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Specific warnings** \- Though Stiles is immortal, he looks like and sometimes presents himself as a sixteen year-old boy; he has a consensual sexual relationship with a fully grown man. Further, there is activity (some of it sexual) that could be considered vore or guro - bloody and destructive to the point a human being would not recover; Peter is a wolf, and Stiles is a willing body. I would call these parts descriptive but not explicit; everyone draws their lines differently. If you have a specific question about this fic, please feel free to message/email me.

Stiles never believed in all the One True Love crap. 

Love at first sight? Sure. Life-long love? Hey, why not - some people really manage to stick with it, and good for them. Stiles believes in Love, capital-L, and he's definitely been In Love a few times in his life. He's spent a lifetime with people, or years, or just days, or an hour, and he knows the beauty and the worth of all of them. He's not saying love doesn't exist. He just doesn't find it particularly... transformative. There's no one Stiles can rank higher than another, or better, or _more_. No one made him feel complete; he always felt complete enough by himself, thanks. No one made him think the years he had before them were empty, or meaningless, or - whatever. Loving someone never made him an intrinsically better person. Loving Peter might make him a worse one, actually. 

But he digresses. Doesn't he? He usually does. Love, right, love - in the end, is maybe just as surprising as everyone says it is. Stiles never expected to meet someone like Peter Hale. He didn't know there was anyone like him. In all this time, could never have imagined.

| |

In his head Stiles's divides his life into a series of books, like an encyclopedia of his immortal life. Broken up by who he pretends to be, by where he's hiding in plain sight. This particular volume starts after Stiles decides he's tired of bumming around New York. The last few years have been fun, because when you've got no regard for personal safety - and why would Stiles bother? - couch surfing around the Big Apple has it's own appeal: the people, the music, the drugs, the sex. But the scene's getting stale, and Stiles has 'almost' OD'd too many times, slept with too many of the same people, and he isn't getting any _older_ , so. Time for another reinvention. And when you're an immortal sixteen year old who is actually stuck _looking_ sixteen for all of eternity? You generally need to have a parent-like character in the picture.

Stiles has done it all at one time or another: paid for someone to pretend - paid in sex, or money, or information; even organs, once, though living without kidneys is not something he's particularly interested in trying again, even in the short-term - he's posed as a helpless orphan, a runaway, down-on-his-luck and looking for work; sometimes he's even told people what he is, told them what he can do for them - Stiles was genuinely spooked after watching _The Prestige_ , but he supposes coincidence does happen now and then. He's been vivisected, he's been experimented on, he's been a frighteningly youthful boy toy. In bigger cities he's struck out on his own, played poor little rich boy - Mother in Boca, Dad jet-setting around the world for business - but he feels like a family this time around. Like he wants to settle, take a turn being the dutiful son - _belonging_ somewhere for once. He wants high school, and chores, and a shitty second-hand car. Maybe try out for a sport's team - what _are_ the crazy kids playing these days? Is it still football, or has soccer finally caught on?

So while he's not exactly _un_ ashamed to admit he took advantage of John Stilinski's grief over losing his wife, it's not exactly the worst thing Stiles has done either. A son that can never die is a pretty good selling point, and all it takes to sort out is a little paperwork. Stiles has a lot of friends, and descendants of friends, and a _lot_ of money, so records for John Stilinski, Jr., appear right where he needs them. 

Which mean he's a Stilinkski now - he'll forever think of himself as Genim, really, but if you're going to be immortal and not end up in a lab somewhere it's good to be inconspicuous, and Genim is anything but - and the good Sheriff has transferred to Beacon Hills, California, because Stiles hasn't seen the West Coast, not for a good hundred years. He doesn't expect to see any familiar faces.

Peter never feels familiar. Peter always feels new, and strange, and foreign, and for a man-child who's traveled every inch of the globe, new and strange and foreign is a more than welcome sensation. 

| |

John buys a two-bedroom on the outside of town. Beacon Hills is a good spot - a new Sheriff might be cause for gossip, but it spreads just as quickly that the Sheriff is newly widowed, and with a teenage son. They get left alone, mostly, except for a few brave middle-aged women who swing between offering sincere condolences and scoping out whether John wants a little help mending his broken heart. Stiles stops by the Sheriff's department and introduces himself to everyone - well, John does, with one hand on the back of Stiles's neck, comfortable - and Stiles makes an adorably klutzy nuisance of himself, with a plate of cookies.

School doesn't start for another few weeks - don't get Stiles started on the current American education system, okay, he remembers the good ole' days of six days a week year-round - so he explores the rest of his new environment. Gets familiar. Beacon Hills itself isn't that big, which leaves nearby Beacon Heights to fill in most of the commercial gaps. After that, it's the just-in-case stuff: What's the quickest way out of town? The state? Where's the nearest airport? Which are the main roads and which are the secret back ones? Boring and time consuming work, but necessary - worth it on a few occasions. Stiles no longer underestimates the value of a back-up plan. 

He’s in the woods when it happens; when his life, such as it is, changes forever. He’s been walking on the trails, trying to learn the forest like the back of his hand, when he comes across a wolf. 

His first thought isn’t panic so much as annoyance - a _wolf_ , Jesus, great, are there even supposed to be wolves in California? Stiles wouldn't call being mauled to death by an animal the worst way to go, but it's not exactly in his top ten, either. 

"Nice doggie," he says weakly. Do wolves eat dead meat? If the thing mauls him to death, and Stiles wakes up still being chewed on - he's not going to be in a good mood, is all he's saying. " _Good_ wolfie." Stiles stretches his hand out, tentatively. Wait, is it supposed to be a fist? No wiggly fingers? "You tame, or something?" The wolf's mouth parts into something that looks more like a smile than aggression. Lolling tongue falling over a row of pointed teeth.

And then Stiles has to work really hard to hold onto his shit, because _the wolf transforms in front of him_. 

"Or something," the man - a naked man, in point of fact - says, and never let it be said that Stiles doesn't appreciate a quick wit. "You smell... different," he continues, head tilted to the side, just like the wolf, just the wolf he just was, and - holy shit, Stiles is not alone. In a general supernatural sense, obviously, he's never actually met someone who was a werewolf before, much less someone who was immortal, this - this is _huge_.

"You're a werewolf," he says stupidly, and the man grins. 

"You're not exactly human yourself," and a chill goes up and down Stiles's spine. "You smell like death," and that's maybe the first time in human existence someone has said that sentence with delight. 

"Yeah, I - uh. It's kind of my wheelhouse," Stiles stammers, because while he has, occasionally, told people what he really was, it's never been like this. No one has ever _found him out_. "You're - "

"I can smell it all over you," he continues, and he's - coming closer, he's right up next to Stiles, now, close enough that it feels like the summer heat is trapped between them, and Stiles is trying really hard to ignore that Mystery Werewolf Guy is entirely naked. "Not just recently either. _Old_ ," and Stiles doesn't know how well werewolves can smell, but he thinks Mystery Guy might have an inkling of exactly how old. 

"Ancient," Stiles admits, and Mystery Guy takes that as permission to get closer. To press his face into the curve of Stiles's neck and _growl_. "But you! You're -"

"A werewolf, yes," Mystery Guy says. Teeth scraping delicately over Stiles's jugular while Stiles shivers. "Did you prefer me on all fours?" he asks, amused, and _there_ is a thought process that Stiles will have to trip over for a while. "You _did_ ," he continues, laughing, and Stiles can _feel_ the hair that beings to sprout along the man's body. Or - fur. Wolves have fur, right? 

"Not exactly," Stiles says, and takes their closeness as permission to run one hand through Mystery Guy's hair. Not quite - petting, that seems a little disingenuous. If not a little condescending. "Although I wouldn't say no to seeing it again."

"Mmm. You smell - I want to _bite_ you," Mystery Guy says, disarmingly straightforward, and Stiles - fuck, how is he supposed to hold up under that?

"Yes," he says, almost before he thinks, and the man's teeth bite into Stiles in the blink of an eye, deep in the meat between the neck and the shoulder. There's a gush of blood, hot and wet, always a touch thicker than Stiles expects even after all this time, and he has to blink away the tears that spring into his eyes. Pain is pain, in that first moment, and Stiles is a boy whose throat is being torn out. 

"Fuck," he says - rasps, maybe, not quite wet enough for a gurgle. He feels his knees go weak, and then the rush of adrenaline, the punch-force of it in his stomach, urging him to fight or run and instead Stiles pulls on the werewolf's hair. Claws at his chest; warm skin with a scratch of soft hair. Entirely human, he thinks. "Fuck," again, at the second bite, the feeling of muscle pulling away from bone. Not a love bite, not playful, not even one meant simply to draw blood, but one for _tearing_. Both of the werewolf’s hands around his neck to hold him still, and blood running down Stiles’s chest, soaking through his shirt. 

It’s not that Stiles has never been bitten, or never been killed, but the feeling of being _fed _upon is entirely and strangely new.__

“Too much?” is what he hears, as if down a long tunnel, and his vision has gone gray around the edges. Two arms around his waist, now, pressed tip to toe. The beginnings of an erection pressed against his thigh. A rough tongue, a long one, a not-human one slipping in and out of him over corded flesh.

"Incredible," a soft murmur just below his ear. "Healing already,” the admiration clear in his tone – the _lust_ , even if Stiles weren’t pressed against him just to stand upright. Stiles shoulder is trying to knit itself back together; the puncture marks in his neck already closing. The blood smeared on his neck and chest going a little sticky, while Stiles's new werewolf friend continues to lap it up.

“S’me,” Stiles slurs a little. “Incredible.” The line between recovering from blood loss and actually dying is thin. And exhausting. “Gimme a minute and I’ll show you amazing.”

The man - or wolf? werewolf? just were? or does he prefer man? this feels speciesist, oh my god, Stiles doesn't even know how to handle this thought process - nods. Licks one last time over Stiles's neck, his shoulder. One hand still pressed to the small of Stiles's back - less about holding him up, and more about holding him close.

"Are you - what's your name?" Stiles asks instead. The wet gone out of his voice; practically a normal tone. 

The man laughs. "Peter," he says, and there's still the red-yellow smear of Stiles's blood on his teeth. "Peter Hale. And yours, sweet boy?”

“Stiles,” though it’s on the tip of his tongue to say Genim. Jesus. Stiles needs to get away. Clear his head. 

“I would very much like to bite you again, Stiles," the same way people used to ask if they could come courting, and Stiles is - charmed. Weirdly charmed. He's been bitten by a werewolf, bitten basically to _death_ , and he's still arrived at 'charmed'.

"I think I could - tomorrow? Here?" When Peter nods his assent, Stiles tries to pull of his shirt, which - ugh, disgusting. Dry enough to stick, wet enough to _peel_ , and Stiles is going to take a shower the minute he gets home. "Can you get rid of this?" he asks, and Peter's eyes _flare_.

"I'll find some use for it," and that's not the same as getting rid of it, by a long shot, but Stiles - doesn't care. Too tired. Too on edge. Too fucking _jazzed_ that he's not the only supernatural thing that walks this earth to think about something as insignificant as consequences. 

“Tomorrow,” Peter repeats, and then he’s a wolf again, running back into the forest. Stiles’s blood-stained shirt clenched between his jaws.

| |

Stiles spends the first hour home running his fingers over the scars, then just the spot where they once were. He tries to get the blood out of his hoodie, the rivulets that ran down into his jeans; stiffening the fabric and flaking off in brown-red bits.

He doesn’t sleep. Couldn’t if he tried. He's stuck thinking about the texture of Peter's tongue. The shape of his teeth against the grain of Stiles's skin. Stiles ends up trolling the internet instead, looking up everything about werewolves he can find, anything that seems the least bit legitimate. He has a storage unit in New York full of things he's collected through the ages - there might be something there, he'll have to have it forwarded - and there are buyers all over the world he's going to have to get in contact with. By the time the sun rises he's jittery, full of soda and powdered mini-donuts he'd bought at the 7-11 when he couldn't stand to be in the house for one more minute.

He spends the morning in agony - thousands of years old and he's like a kid on Christmas Eve all of a sudden. Counting down the hours. And it's because - he realizes, okay, Stiles is very in touch with his feelings, he knows himself well enough after all this time - that this is the first time in thousands of years that Stiles hasn't felt alone.

It's a tricky thing, loneliness - the kind of thing that sneaks up on you in dim moments and dark places, but the truth is that Stiles isn't lonely very often. He doesn't let himself be. He's good at making friends, at opening up to people and getting them to open up to him, and he's not self-loathing or existential enough to not _want_ friends, or a family. So while he isn't often lonely, he's always alone. Always has been, by definition. Being immortal has never been Highlander, for Stiles; it's not a game, and he doesn't have any rules. He died for the first time when he was sixteen, and he's been dying fairly regularly ever since. He doesn't have an explanation. Not even the tiniest scrap of one. He goes through fits and stages of trying to figure it out, turning to religion or science or folklore, hunting down stories that never seem to have the right grain of truth; sometimes he wants answers, and sometimes he doesn't, but he's never found them either way. He never asked for this. He didn't wish to live forever. He never saved a witch's life, or a god's. His parents were human, and desperately mortal, and so was everyone else Stiles has ever known. 

Until Peter. Until _Peter_ , who is mortal, maybe, in the strictest term of the word, but certainly isn't _human_.

| |

"I'm seeing someone," Stiles says at dinner one night, a few months down the line, and John slowly puts down his fork.

"Okay. Do you need money for the prom?" 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Your sense of humor never fails to amuse. And - no. Like, not at all. He's older. I mean, obviously not _really_ older, hah, but older as far as the state of California is concerned, and maybe as far as you should be concerned in a paternal capacity, so this is - like a head's up, I guess? In case it goes sideways somehow?" Stiles put his age down as sixteen when he came to Beacon Hills, so he could stick around as long as he could. He wasn't expecting to meet someone he planned on staying with.

"Are you planning on it going sideways somehow?" and even though he's really just repeating what Stiles says, it's got some weight to it. Guilt-ridden, fatherly weight. He's good.

"Does anyone ever really _plan_ on things going wrong?" Stiles deflects. "C'mon, I'm good at keeping secrets. Obviously.”

“Hmm.” John takes a sip of his coffee. "He, huh?" and Stiles nearly face-palms, because - duh.

"Yeahhh, well. You know. Phenomenal immortal power! Why stick to only one gender?" Or... species. 

"Interesting view of bisexuality," John says, wry, and Stiles grins. 

“We’re okay, then?”

“Stiles…” John runs one hand over his face. He looks older, in that moment, Stiles thinks. God, they get old so quickly. “Your sexuality is honestly the least of my concerns.” 

"You're still my dad," Stiles says, and he means it, even. Just because he's had a lot of Dads before doesn't mean John is just as special. Better than some, really. "And, I mean - I'm sixteen. Just because I'm always sixteen doesn't make that any less true."

"Mostly I forget, you know," John says softly. "That you're - that you're not -"

"I want you to forget," Stiles insists. Suddenly fierce. "It's - I like that you forget." Stiles knows it’s a weird balance - wanting someone to know all about him, but not really treat him any differently. He's an unusual person with unusual needs - and getting more unusual by the day, he's starting to figure out - but he's still a person. He needs people, he needs _his_ people. 

He stands up, on a whim, and reaches over to hug John. So different from the way he held Peter earlier, so obviously different, because John is safe and Peter is dangerous, so different, and John really is like coming home. 

"Always wanted a son," John mumbles, nose pressed into the top of Stiles's head, and Stiles _aches_.

"I can guarantee you'll have one," Stiles says, and breathes the scent of him in - bourbon, aftershave, detergent, something that might be soy sauce. "Until the day you die."

They stand there for a moment, until John sits back and clears his throat. 

"Be careful," is all he says, and they don't talk about it again.

| |

Stiles has sort of done this before. Not with a werewolf, obviously, but the general pain-torturing-killing thing? Sure. He's been around for a couple of centuries now, he's tried a lot of stuff that's generally ill-advised. Letting someone mess him up? Letting someone kill him - for sex reasons, even - is kind of the definition of stupid. Really, Stiles is lucky he's not locked up in a lab somewhere.

The thing is - after the first few centuries, even death isn't a mystery. Even when people create more and more inventive ways to kill themselves and each other - Catherine's wheel, the guillotine, dynamite, radiation, fucking _bath salts_ \- it’s still death. Quick or slow, like you’re burning up or slipping into ice, painful or numbed; it looks like same when you slide into it. Stiles knows how far life stretches. He knows the rules of his own existence. He knows exactly how much his body can take before he loses a limb, before shock sets in, before he can't breathe, before he can't think, before he's lost too much blood to move. It’s been hundreds of years since someone has taught him something new, since Stiles was first exploring this for himself. No one has ever turned his gift on its head like this. There has never been anyone for him like Peter.

Peter, who cracked open Stiles’s rib-cage to show him his still-beating heart, and ate it raw. Who peels off skin and muscle, pulls out organ and bone, makes blood gush and flow and pulse, catches it in his nails, in the wrinkles of his skin. Lets it flood his mouth. Cling in drops to his eyelashes. Peter, who feeds on him, who fucks him in a pool of his own blood, fucks him not only with his hands around Stiles's neck but his hands in Stiles's guts, still fucking him when Stiles comes back into himself, down the rabbit hole and back again, a wolf waiting for him on either side. 

"Hello boy," Peter rasps, and Stiles feels his body writhing, caught halfway through an orgasm when he died. Caught between Peter's teeth now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realize the implications of Peter's first biting Stiles - I simply thought he would be willing to live with any of the consequences.
> 
> To me, Stiles is a cross between Wolverine and Captain Jack Harkness - he heals faster than a human but not instantaneously; he can "die" but he usually comes back within a few moments.
> 
>  
> 
> I like a look of agony,  
> Because I know it's true;  
> Men do not sham convulsion,  
> Nor simulate a throe.
> 
> The eyes glaze once, and that is death.  
> Impossible to feign  
> The beads upon the forehead  
> By homely anguish strung.  
> Emily Dickinson, Real
> 
>    
> The next "chapter" are mini-scenes with little context that I cut from the fic - Peter taking Stiles home to meet the rest of the Hales, their first kiss, and some biting.


	2. Random Bits of Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I WASH MY HANDS OF THIS.

"What are you?" Peter asks, and the tone of his voice is strange, to Stiles. Admiring, coveting, wondrous - not afraid. Sincere to the point of guilelessness. Like a child. 

Stiles shrugs a little. Looks up at the tree line. "I don't know exactly. I never did figure it out. Human."

"Not vampire?" Peter asks, impish, and Stiles grins, because it _is_ that ridiculous. 

"Because you're a werewolf?"

"Well..."

"Human. As far as I've ever been able to tell. Just immortal. I was hoping you could tell me."

"There are hunters," and Peter's lip curls, like the very word pains him. "They keep bestiaries, sometimes, but - you won't be able to get ahold of one easily."

Bestiaries. Stiles has come across a few in his time, but if werewolves are real - there must be others who know. Others who keep that secret, and other secrets. 

 

"Do you have a - like a pack, or something?"

Brightens, and Stiles is already enamored with the way Peter displays everything on his face, in the shine of his eyes. "My family."

 

"You could be pack," Peter says, serious, and Stiles has to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

 

Peter raises his head from the crook of Stiles’s neck and kisses him – gentle, barely a kiss, the touch of lip to lip and nothing else. "Do you - " Peter begins, and cradles Stiles's face in his hands. "Is this all right?" Curious, and careful, like _this_ is a line he has to worry about crossing.

Stiles pulls back to stare at him. "I'm older than you. You realize this, right? I haven't been a virgin in any way, shape, or form for like, a thousand years," and Peter makes a noise that might be a growl. "You - you're _welcome_ to me," and Peter's eyes flash storm gray - almost blue, almost green, like the shadow just beneath the purple of a bruise.

 

 

"Ow," Stiles whines. _Rude_. "What was that for?"

"My mark," Peter says, and nuzzles at it. "I want my pack to meet you. They've smelled you on me, this is -"

"Making it official?" Stiles says, wry. It's been a while since he's had to meet anyone's parents. "You know it'll go away by the end of the night?" It's deep enough to scar, probably, but it won’t stay long.

Peter growls. Bares his teeth, not _really_ a grin. "Not exactly a disincentive."

Fair point.

"What did you tell them? About me, I mean."

"Nothing. Everything," face in the curve of Stiles's neck, maybe smelling, maybe deciding where to bite next. "That you're mine. Not what you are."

"Will they be able to tell?" The way you could tell, Stiles wants to say, but he's starting to think that Peter is singular. Where Stiles is concerned, at the very least.

"Mmm. Maybe? You don't smell human. Like - death, usually. Blood sometimes. A lot like me,” and the smile Stiles feels against his skin is not entirely human. “It doesn't matter. They'll accept you if you're mine.”

 

"He smells," the scowly one announces.

Stiles just raises an eyebrow. "Rude, much?" and Dark-and-Scowly at least has the decency to look ashamed after that. 

"I meant - not in a bad way, just -"

"Not human," Stiles fills in. "Or not entirely human, I guess. I've always felt human."

"Taste human," Peter murmurs, but in a room of werewolves it's not exactly _subtle_.

" _Anyway_ ," Stiles continues. "It's nice to meet everyone," and tries to pretend the little scowly one doesn't follow him around like a lost puppy for the rest of the visit.

 

Dark and Scowly is obviously wee!Derek. I bet he was a teenage terror.


End file.
